I am tired of news. The last few months have been a horror show. I feel like I’ve been beaten with gasoline soaked bags of feathers. I am always kind of nauseous and feeling like I’m on the verge of a sinus infection. But I’m not. Just anxious and counting the days down until the goddamn election is over. I am curious if I am going to have to mourn all the progress that women have made over the past 100 years or not.
Warning: This is my safe place. Post political comments at your own risk. If I read it and it doesn’t make me anxious, that is cool. But if I feel even a flutter of tightness in my chest, I’m turning your comment into bad poetry. It won’t even be clever bad, it will just be bad, bad.
So, I’m taking a break right now. I’ve had my fill of politics, racism, train wrecks, shootings, and clowns. (seriously, what is up with the fucking clowns?) I’m going to think about something else for a while because my brain has been itchy and swollen for too long.
I want to tell you about the time my older son, Zach, freaked me the fuck out.
My favorite stories have ghosts in them. Or werewolves or aliens. Give me a show with a monster of the week theme and I’m happy as a clam.
Why are clams so goddamn happy, anyway? What’s so great about being a clam? They just lay around. Or end up in soup. I bet those clams aren’t very happy.
Give me Stephen King, the Winchester Brothers, The Doctor, or the badass with a crossbow, and it’s all good.
But these are just stories. Made up stuff.
I’m not a non-believer in the paranormal, but I am highly skeptical. Super skeptical. The only reason why I say I don’t believe is because I don’t know every goddamn thing. Well, and there have been things I’ve seen that I can’t explain. That shit keeps me from being a non-believer.
That being said, when Zach was little, he used to read my mind.
I started noticing it when he was very young. If I coughed, he would cough in unison with me. The first time I noticed it, I thought it was a funny coincidence. The next few times, I started giving my baby the side-eye.
The freakiest thing he did, though, was when he was three years old.
Zach and I lived in an upstairs bedroom at my parents house. I was newly divorced and attempting to go to college. That didn’t work out. Zach and I made it around 8 months of living in the same house as my father before I had to ditch college and go back to computer programming so we could get our own place.
Anyway, one night I watched Zach as he slept. I thought about the way he always knew when I would cough. Or the one time he asked me who Steve Martin was just when I was thinking about an the episode of SNL I had just watched. I contemplated whether or not my son could read my mind.
I did not speak these words.
I thought these words: Zach, sit up.
And he did.
He sat up.
He was still asleep. His little dark curls were damp with sweat and he was wearing some superhero underwear, just sitting there because I thought it at him.
I did what any mother would do. I jumped out the bed and ran across the room going “Oh for fuck’s sake, what the fuck was that?”
I shuddered for a few minutes, yanked up my big girl panties, walked back to the bed and pushed his shoulder with my forefinger until he was laying down again.
Then, I went downstairs and watched reruns of Quincy because I was still kind of freaked out by my mind reading toddler.
There was also the incident when he was two when he very clearly told me about aliens that where in his bedroom window. I’m still scarred by that one. I will tell you about that one later.
So, I don’t have any new article links to share. But I do have more Dude stories. Not gonna lie, this is my favorite series of photos to date. I give my big man a lot of shit, but he does work hard to make me smile.
Don’t tell him I said that, though. Motherfucker will be intolerable.